


Pretty and Witty and Gay

by melannen



Series: Les Mis Crossovers That Should Not Be [4]
Category: Homestuck, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Decisions, Consent Issues Due To Alcohol, Crossover, Dream Bubbles, F/M, Fade to Black, Reality Bending, World as Myth, mutually fictional worlds meet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melannen/pseuds/melannen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently, as a result of the ongoing boredom-induced meteor-wide troll-human cultural exchange, whoever was dreaming this couldn't decide whether they were dreaming about Victor Hugo's <i>Les Miserables</i> or Troll Victor Hugo's <i>In Which The Story Of A Serendipitous Kismessitude Between A Duty-Bound Legislacerator And An Honorable Criminal Is Told Against The Backdrop Of The Summoner's Final Revolt, An Adult Steals A Child From An Abusive Lusus And Secretly Raises Her Himself, A Subadult Seadweller Rejects His Lusus In An Attempt To Fulfill His Dying Ancestor's Wish, A Vile Conspiracy Against Her Imperious Condescension Is Utterly Defeated, There Are Extensive Historical Digressions On Matters Including The Production Of Grubmeal, The Early Conquests Of The Condesce, And The Waste Reclamation Systems On Starships, There Are Three Red Kisses, Fourteen Black Kisses, And Three Acts Of Sacrifice In Moments Of Pale Devotion, Over Two Dozen Named Characters Die, Mostly In Gory Violence, And Everybody Is Miserable Nearly All The Time But They Are Obviously Less Miserable Than They Would Be If Not For Her Imperious Condescension's Enlightened Governance</i>, generally known in casual conversation as Troll Less Miserable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty and Witty and Gay

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of a kinkmeme fill. Features a fade-to-black alcohol-induced possibly infidelitous hookup in a dreamworld between two persons of indeterminate relative reality and unstated age; not sure how to warn for that.

One of the more disconcerting things about dream bubbles, Rose thought sloshily to herself, was that once in a while, the asteroid would careen through one that was actually someone's _dream_ rather than a memory or some stratagem of the denizens of the Veil.

Some of the dreams were just strange and rather nauseating. Some of them were so personally revealing that the small group of survivors had wordlessly decided to pretend they'd never seen them. And then there were the ones that were quite obviously the result of somebody doing a lot of reading right before falling asleep.

This led to things like the situation she was very carefully trying to explain to the dream-construct of a fictional character who she was currently getting drunk with. He was taking it better than she'd expected.

"Why should I be surprised to discover that my life, and all that I have loved and hurt for, are but the playthings of fickle children, the poorly-made castoffs of a Toymaker God?" he asked her. "I acknowledge it. I accept it. I am undisturbed. I am merely unsure why you are so convinced that the same conditions don't apply to you as well."

Rose squinted at him. He kept blurring back and forth between being a young-ish, thickset human male with a florid complexion and a face most kindly described as "interesting"; and a barely-adult indigo-blood troll with bags under his eyes and horns that looked as if they'd got bored halfway through growing, and wandered off in the wrong directions.

Apparently, as a result of the ongoing boredom-induced meteor-wide troll-human cultural exchange, whoever was dreaming this couldn't decide whether they were dreaming about Victor Hugo's _Les Miserables_ or Troll Victor Hugo's _In Which The Story Of A Serendipitous Kismessitude Between A Duty-Bound Legislacerator And An Honorable Criminal Is Told Against The Backdrop Of The Summoner's Final Revolt, An Adult Steals A Child From An Abusive Lusus And Secretly Raises Her Himself, A Subadult Seadweller Rejects His Lusus In An Attempt To Fulfill His Dying Ancestor's Wish, A Vile Conspiracy Against Her Imperious Condescension Is Utterly Defeated, There Are Extensive Historical Digressions On Matters Including The Production Of Grubmeal, The Early Conquests Of The Condesce, And The Waste Reclamation Systems On Starships, There Are Three Red Kisses, Fourteen Black Kisses, And Three Acts Of Sacrifice In Moments Of Pale Devotion, Over Two Dozen Named Characters Die, Mostly In Gory Violence, And Everybody Is Miserable Nearly All The Time But They Are Obviously Less Miserable Than They Would Be If Not For Her Imperious Condescension's Enlightened Governance_ , generally known in casual conversation as Troll Less Miserable. Karkat had claimed it was one of the most famous caliginous romance stories in Alternian culture, even though it was intermittently banned by the government.

Either that was what was going on, or she was _really, really_ drunk. Probably not though, less than half the empty bottles on the cafe table were hers, and she hadn't had more than two - well, four - well, five - hooch martinis so far today in waking life.

"I'm _not_ parcicu-- really convinced of that," she told him, gravely. She was actually becoming more convinced every day that out there somewhere, beyond the places beyond the Farthest Ring, there was an Author who was responsible for pretty much all of the senseless misery that had been visited upon her and hers. And when she met him, she was going to punch him in the face. A _lot_. "I conshede that I am probably alsho a figment. But you are a sheveral levels lesh real. You're a dream of a fictional character from a book from a probably-fictional univershe that's derived from a book in another probably-fishional universh."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "But why must one of us be more fictional than the other? Why must there always be a hierarchy, one higher than the other?"

"We could shtart arguing about the nature of kingship again if you want," she offered.

He glanced over to the other side of the cafe's back room, where a bright head and a dark one were still bent intently over a large map of Paris they'd drawn on the floor, moving empty bottles and bits of silverware around it to represent movements of people and troops. Rose had tried to join that conversation when she and the Mayor had first found themselves transported here, but it'd soon become clear that both of those two cared a _lot_ more about political theory and social justice than Rose had ever been capable of caring about _anything_ , and she'd gravitated to the person with the open wine bottles instead. "No thanks," he said, shuddering.

She leaned over the table toward him. "We could prove whish of us is more real," she said. "All we'd have to do ish find whichever of us is actually dreaming, and wake them up, and see which of us goesh out - BANG! - jush like a candle."

"We could," he allowed. "Are you so eager to end our acquaintance, then, Mlle. Lalonde? I am wounded through the heart. Why, we have barely begun to know each other at all."

Rose wondered if he was actually suggesting what she thought he was suggesting. "And how do you proposhe we get to know each other better?"

He dabbled a finger in some of the spilled wine. "My rooms are but a few short blocks away; and if this is, as you say, a dream, I suspect we could shorten the distance even farther, were we motivated."

Okay, he was suggesting what she thought he was suggesting. "Monsieur Grantaire!" she said, in mock-outrage. "I have a girlfriend, you know!"

This fact, and the images it produced, almost derailed him for a moment, but he rallied. "You have just gone to great lengths, however, to convince me that I am but a dream, a fantasy. Surely no fair mistress could hold acts performed in dream as a breach of trust."

Rose considered him, carefully. He'd mostly settled into being human, now. He was still by no means handsome, and she'd never learned to find men sexually attractive regardless, but he was still... _interesting_. And she was _very_ drunk. And it was, after all, only a dream. You were _supposed_ to be able to do stupid things in dreams, and that was something else the Game and its Author had stolen from her.

She glanced over again to the Mayor and his companion, and Grantaire followed her gaze. "Don't worry about him," he said. "I've concluded, through years of close observation, that that sort of thing is as close as he gets to sexual ecstasy. Besides, he may be pretty, but you, Mademoiselle, have _style_."

"You should've sheen me when I was going full-out grisette," Rose muttered, and then put her wine-glass down with an air of great decision. There was a tiny voice inside her asking her how she would feel if she learned that Kanaya had dallied with some convenient shadow of Vriska in a dream-bubble, but it was almost entirely drowned out by the wine. "I don't do penetration," she said.

"That's fine. I'm generally too drunk to get it up anyway."

"But I've gotten the impression, shomehow, that you're _very_ good with your mouth."

He grinned at her. It was the smile of a cat who'd gotten the cream. Many times. And had enjoyed licking it up very, very thoroughly.

She stood up, and had to lean heavily on the table to do it. "Well, in _that_ cashe, I don't think I could manage a couple of blocks, but I _shuspect_ that staircase--" she gestured, somewhat wildly, at an architectural feature that hadn't been there a few moments ago -- "Will turn out to quite conveniently open directly onto your bedroom."

"Well, Mademoiselle," he said, standing rather more steadily and taking her by the arm, "As you are clearly the more real of us, lead on."


End file.
